


Hospitality

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 12 Days of Blasphemy Challenge (Good Omens), Alternate Universe, Aziraphale uses his husband as a table, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dom/sub, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Implied Masturbation, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Cock Torture, Post-Canon, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), and if Crowley drops Aziraphale's food, if you consider cold torture, maybe sensation play?, mention of bondage and a cock cage, one he's going to lick scraps off of, there's going to be Hell to pay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:49:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: When Aziraphale begins fantasizing about eating oysters off his husband's body, the elaborate Christmas Eve feast he's been planning quickly becomes an intimate dinner for two.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571323
Comments: 14
Kudos: 119
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy





	Hospitality

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the '12 Days of Blasphemy' prompt 'hospitality'.

“So what should we try first then? Hmm?” Aziraphale muses as he examines the delectable offerings spread out before him: hamachi, toro, tobiko, salmon maki, tuna sashimi, hand-rolled prawn tempura, and the pièce de résistance - fresh oysters with a sprinkling of paprika, each dish the creation of Aziraphale’s favorite sushi chef in Soho. And since Aziraphale happens to be among the man’s favorite customers, he whipped these up special and had them ready before closing regardless of the fact that it’s Christmas Eve. He even gifted the angel a special bottle of his best sake to wash it down with. “Everything looks so delicious!”

“What are you in the mood for, love?” Crowley asks. “What would tickle your taste buds?”

“Funny you should ask ...” Aziraphale looks his demon over, not subtle at all about it, grinning like a wolf on the prowl in a field of blind and deaf sheep.

Crowley grins. “There’s more than enough time for that.”

“All night, as a matter of fact.” Aziraphale’s eyes return to the tantalizing buffet. With an excited wag of manicured fingers, he reaches down and plucks up one of the salty mollusks, lifting it to his lips and throwing it back, shivering as it slides down his throat. He immediately reaches for another, basking in the ice bath filling a metal plate to the rim, the whole thing resting squarely on Crowley’s bare groin. Aziraphale slurps down the second just as quickly, followed by an obscene and satisfied smacking of his lips. “Scrumptious! Would you like one, my dear?”

“Yes, please,” Crowley replies, lifting only his head and shoulders an inch off the dining room table when the oyster is presented to him, careful not to dislodge the items balanced atop his collarbone.

“How’s that now?” Aziraphale asks, greedy eyes never leaving the pucker of his husband’s lips, the workings of his throat when he swallows, the bouncing of his Adams apple.

“Exceptional.” Crowley glances at his husband and Master, seemingly unfazed by the vulnerability of his current position – locked in place not by ropes or chains but by obedience, with portions of food displayed on seaweed and radish rounds lined along the plains of his body.

Food that Aziraphale has mentioned multiple times he’s looking forward to devouring at his leisure, so Crowley had better not spoil a single one.

Or _else_.

Aziraphale had originally envisioned hosting a huge banquet for Christmas Eve – a traditional Feast of the Seven Fishes featuring all of his favorites: baccalà, smelt, eel, shrimp, mussels … He’d invite all their friends to partake in a long evening of food, wine, and music; ring in Christmas surrounded by everyone they loved. It might have been a little difficult getting parents to agree to relinquish their children on this special night, but he was certain it would have been a _snap_.

But when was reviewing the menu and had gotten to the oysters, his mind took a sharp turn.

It’s been _ages_ since Aziraphale has eaten a decent oyster. Much longer since he’s eaten one out of Crowley’s mouth, off of his body.

He imagined his demon laid out like a serving platter and covered in food for the feast. In his fantasy, the hot dishes - requiring clumsy chafing dishes, tureens, and the like - became finger foods, then sushi, poised on leaves and strategically situated. Suddenly, the festive night he’d been planning, one of holy remembrance and contemplation upon the spiritual meaning of the upcoming holiday, turned into an orgy (with a much different guest list obviously) but starring his gorgeous Crowley in the spotlight, worshipped for the feast he is.

After a moment of private reflection (with his knuckle shoved in his mouth and his hand down the front of his trousers) the idea of celebrating remained, but instead of a dinner with their circle of friends, it transitioned into an intimate meal for two.

After all, Aziraphale’s hospitality only extends so far.

They would invite their friends over for a meal some other night.

 _This_ night would be for them.

“What next?” Crowley asks, breathless as he follows Aziraphale’s gaze hopping from one cluster of sushi to the other, zeroing in on his next target, Crowley’s skin prickling in anticipation of lips and tongue so close just for Aziraphale to lavish attention elsewhere.

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking …” Aziraphale mutters, nose close to the tempura, than the maki, finally settling above the toro for longer than a minute. He opens his mouth, bears his teeth, lowers down, then switches gears, swooping in to snap up the sashimi teetering on Crowley’s pebbled left nipple. Forgoing sushi etiquette, Aziraphale doesn’t eat his meal with chopsticks, choosing to do so with his mouth and teeth. He does, however, take the piece into his mouth in one bite.

It’s a rather _large_ piece, one Aziraphale has to wrap his tongue around to drag into his mouth. The insinuation behind that move makes Crowley shudder.

Aziraphale doesn’t stand right away, peeking up at his husband while he chews and swallows. “Oops,” he says, licking his lips. “I may have missed something.”

“Wha--- _aaah_!” Crowley moans as Aziraphale sticks out his tongue and cleans the spot the fish had been with just the tip, flicking lightly but firmly against Crowley’s sensitive skin. Crowley shuts his eyes, groans low in his throat, balls his hands into fists to keep them from moving from his sides.

Aziraphale’s talented tongue may be torturous, but it’s that damned plate on his crotch that’s proving to be the bastard! The ice piled inside keeps it cold to the point of burning, but that ice has started to melt, and moisture is forming on the outside. Droplets roll down the sides, pooling between his legs, then continue the voyage down his inner thighs. It tickles like crazy, but it also mimics the feeling of saliva and sweat, and with Aziraphale’s mouth on him, gives him vivid thoughts of his angel riding him.

The urge to buck up in search of him is almost more than he can stand.

But he can’t move. If anything hits the floor, even one tiny crumb, he’ll be spending the night tied to his throne with a frozen cage clamped over his cock while Aziraphale does Whoever knows what in the master bedroom. If Aziraphale is feeling generous, he may open his eyes and stare into the mirror while he does so that Crowley can look through his eyes and watch.

But that’s highly unlikely.

“Good boy,” Aziraphale murmurs as he bites into another piece of sashimi and feeds it to Crowley, lips nearly brushing as Crowley inhales it in an attempt to steal a kiss.

But Aziraphale is too quick for him.

He sidesteps away, following that morsel with kisses up his demon’s neck and sucks down, more interested as time goes on in sampling the flavor of his husband's gasps and moans over the fresh fish at his disposal. Too many times Crowley threatens to lose the tobiko resting on his abs above what would be his belly button, where a small, flat bowl of soy sauce sits, when Aziraphale fixes his mouth over Crowley’s neglected right nipple and begins to lap.

Aziraphale tuts when he sees streaks of sauce dripping over the sides and down Crowley’s skin, heading for his hips, and Crowley whines like a kicked puppy when Aziraphale’s mouth leaves to clean it up.

“You know, I’m curious how close to tempting fate we’re coming right now.”

“How do you mean?” Aziraphale asks, collecting a dribble of sauce off Crowley’s flank.

“Christmas Eve is one of those big nights for going without, isn’t it? No meat, no sex, no …”

“Oh, my dear. I’ve spent over 6000 years following rules I’m more than sure are arbitrary,” Aziraphale says, carefully removing the ice cold plate from Crowley’s crotch and setting it aside. “I don’t intend on ending this night by going _without_.”

“That could be considered blasphemy,” Crowley warns teasingly.

“Well, then …” Aziraphale leans over Crowley’s legs, hovering inches from his demon’s flaccid cock, the heat of his mouth sucking away the chill “… I’d better enjoy it.”

“I suppose you’d better.”

“And you as well.”

“Oh …” Crowley winks “… I know I will.”

“Just one thing.”

“What’s that, angel?”

Aziraphale peers up at him, mirthful blue eyes flashing a stony grey. “Don’t … drop … the food.”


End file.
